He had ridden the loop many times before.

They all knew him. Well maybe they didn’t actually know him, but they had seen him. Well maybe they hadn’t seen him, but they had seen someone like him. Well maybe not someone like him, but surely someone. Surely they had all seen someone at some point in time and space. Surely that much must be true.

He thought this often.

Late in the afternoon a man emerged from a bustling crowd, twisting, twirling and otherwise contorting himself against the fight of the crowd. He often thought that perhaps he should have joined the circus when he was younger, for it was too late now, yet not late enough to forget the idea entirely. He dropped out of sight, lost amongst the living sea of humanity. Yet, as always seemed to occur, the lone figure emerged into the upwards climb, winning his own personal little war.

He thinks once again.

As he thinks, his body is pulled further out of the ground, out into a huge enclosed space which he shares with a tower, further hundreds of people and time itself. The forsaken pocket watch, destined to never lie nestled within the velvet pocket of a rich man’s waistcoat plays its music. It loved by many, yet it craves just one. The man wonders if time’s song is more of a lament to the pocket it will never belong in.

Sometimes people just belong.

Walking perhaps faster now, not rushing, but not ambling either, he walks onto the open street. More people surround him, carrying their small and empty lives in one leather bound bag. He realises now, in the setting yet full light of the sun, that they are not all as solid as they should be. He knows of the rumours of people simply disappearing of course, not quite sure whether to accept they as an inevitability of a modern society or pass them off as alarmist urban myths.

Surely people can never truly disappear.

Down the hill he strides now. Young seekers of knowledge and cheap thrills accompany him. He looks and imagines the happiness they have in front of them. Old ones, long since given up on hopes and dreams line his way. He looks at the lost ones, drawing at his feet with chalk. He looks down the side streets, imagining the pits of shadows that were sucking up the helplessly addicted, sucking the spirit from their faces. They might soon disappear he thinks, then chuckles at the peculiar thought.

Maybe they think so too.

People glide across his path, encased in metal, tinned in with people they shall never know the name of. Once he would have waved. Bronzed men stand, frozen in place, their faces contorted into looks of monotonous amazement. He walks right on by. They may never cease to be. The variation of life he experiences in his walk brings a mysterious desire to peel back his lips and smile. He resists comfortably. People around him defy other urges, their efforts show in their eyes which glisten with unrealised potential.

They could do whatever they like.

One of the lost ones fights their creation. The drawing snarls aggressively but the lost one merely flicks a hand and the attacker is washed into the gutter. Oblivious to the war being fought under their feet the hungry amongst the crowd pile into the neon lit providers of sustenance. A mass of people wait for an electronic light to tell them they can walk.

He too lingers until the light turns green.

He passes under the watchful eyes of the chemically modified gargoyles of black and red, their faces peppered with metal. He sees that one has sprouted a leak. He feels no pity. For the briefest of moments his hand is not empty while the guards grant his access to the beating heart. He chooses an artery, descends and takes a seat opposite of the tired worker, reading his newspaper. He stares through the man, as is his custom. Suddenly they all begin to move.

The movement is soothing.

A few stops later he realises that the man opposite him has disappeared. The newspaper remains, but the tired man has vanished. He realises that people do disappear every day. One moment they are there, and the next they are not. It frightens him.

The train stops.

Early in the evening a man emerged from a bustling crowd, twisting, twirling and otherwise contorting himself against the fight of the crowd.

He will ride the loop many times more.